He peered at her through the gloom inside the car.
“Dostoyevsky, Prudencia? Dostoyevsky? If I were you, I’d start worrying.”
Miss Prim, snugly wrapped in her employer’s coat, gave a happy grin, unseen in the darkness.
4
In the following weeks, the inhabitants of San Ireneo gradually learned the details of the plan that would turn Miss Mott’s husband into a resident spouse. As the mystery plan was revealed, enthusiasm spread throughout the village. The solution negotiated by the Man in the Wing Chair and approved by both husband and wife was designed to ensure that San Ireneo’s teacher overcame the major and most serious obstacle to restoring her marriage: loss of trust. Two conditions were considered essential to achieving this objective. The first, to find a job for the penitent Mr. Mott; the second, that the job should enable his wife to feel secure and not fear that he would leave again. How was this to be achieved? The answer surprised Miss Prim in its simplicity. San Ireneo de Arnois didn’t have a newsagent’s; there was nowhere to buy newspapers, magazines, children’s books, newspaper supplements, part works, picture cards, coloring pencils, or penny sweets. And the right place for it was the village square, close to all the main businesses and a stone’s throw from the school.
At first, Prudencia didn’t grasp the key to the plan. She agreed that a decent job was essential for any man, especially a profoundly repentant man who wanted to rebuild his life, but she couldn’t comprehend why a simple newsagent’s was so important to the success of the undertaking. Hortensia Oeillet enlightened her.
“It’s so she canseehim, Prudencia, don’t you understand? He’s only a few yards from the school. All she has to do is look out of the window and there he is, right in front of her, selling theSan Ireneo Gazette, thrillers, sweets, and sewing patterns. Isn’t it perfect?”
Miss Prim did not agree. She thought it undignified for a man to be cooped up within four walls just so that his wife could keep tabs on him. She thought it unhealthy for a wife to be confident her husband would not run away perhaps only because it was impossible for him to do so. She thought it inappropriate that a married couple should have their private business on display in the village square in front of all their neighbors. Soon, however, she changed her mind. As the days passed, it became apparent to the residents of San Ireneo that a current of love had begun to flow between the newsagent’s and the school. It didn’t escape anyone’s notice that Mr. Mott’s smiles to his customers became distracted whenever his wife appeared at the window or came out into the garden. Nor could anyone fail to observe the teacher’s new hairstyle, her increasingly close-fitting dresses, or that she had exchanged her comfortable rubber-soled boots for dainty, high-heeled shoes. Thus married love bloomed in San Ireneo before everyone’s eyes, enfolded by the cold, sunny days that preceded Christmas in the region.
This was what was in the air when Miss Prim reaffirmed her decision to place her marital future in the hands of the ladies of the village.
“My dear, are you sure?” asked Hortensia Oeillet the morning she told her of her intentions over a cup of tea at the back of the flower shop.
“Not really. Who could be? But if I haven’t met the right man before now, perhaps it’s due to negligence on my part.”
“Oh, but it’s not your fault. That’s not how it works,” objected Emma Giovanacci, who had also been invited to have tea.
“Emma’s right, Prudencia, it’s not a matter of negligence, not entirely anyway. It’s more like... have you readThe Purloined Letterby Edgar Allan Poe?”
“Again? Don’t tell me that story is relevant to falling in love as well? You all apply it to everything. I don’t understand what’s going on in this place.”
“To everything? I’m not sure what you mean,” said the florist, surprised, “but what I do know is that it perfectly describes the discovery of love. Isn’t that right, Emma?”
Her friend hastened to confirm this. She herself had observed the truth of Hortensia’s statement. Two years after her first husband died, she had become friendly with one of his old colleagues, a quiet, affable man called Edmundo Giovanacci, and had had coffee with him occasionally.
“It was many years ago. I was still young and hadn’t yet moved to San Ireneo. I was busy carving out a future for myself. I had to work hard because my first husband, God forgive him, had squandered all our money behind my back. Edmundo knew how draining it had all been, and that I barely wanted to go on living. He would simply take me somewhere nice and order two cups of coffee. And it’s what he did week after week for eight years.”
“Eight years? That’s such a long time,” said Miss Prim.
“Of course it’s a long time. Emma’s always been a bit lazy,” laughed Hortensia, giving her friend a humorous pinch.
“The truth is, I’ve never liked change,” replied Emma Giovanacci, bristling slightly. “That’s why I live here.”
The florist cut each of her guests a large slice of apple tart and then filled their cups with steaming hot China tea.
“But in the end you changed, did you?” asked the librarian.
“Oh yes, I had no choice.”
“Why not? Did he give you an ultimatum?”
“Not exactly. Edmundo moved here to San Ireneo, and eventually I came after him. Don’t imagine it happened instantly—in real life things rarely happen instantly. I hadn’t seen him for weeks. Then one day I woke up and realized that something was missing from my life, something seemingly tiny but actually hugely important. The coffees, the chats, the walks, the pleasant afternoon outings were missing. It sounds silly but, as you grow older, it’s the little things that matter.”
Miss Prim sipped her tea and nestled down into the storeroom armchair. She too believed in the value of the little things. Her first coffee in the morning drunk from her Limoges porcelain cup. Sunlight filtering through the shutters of her room, casting shadows on the floor. Dozing off over a book on a summer’s afternoon. The look in the children’s eyes when they told you about some fact they’d just learned. It was from the little things that the big ones were made, it definitely was. And suddenly she thought of Starets Ambrose and the turkeys.
“It’s like a detective novel, Prudencia. Just like one,” the florist was saying.
“What do you mean?”
“Love, I mean love. It already exists, you can be sure. You just have to find out where, follow the trail, investigate. Exactly like a detective.”
Miss Prim laughed and replied: “But that’s ridiculous. What you’re telling me is that a candidate—the Candidate—already exists and I just have to find out who he is, is that right?”
